


Of Little Shits and Cake

by Remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, birthday fic, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/Remy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean bakes Sam a birthday cake. Sam is very suspicious, and with good reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Little Shits and Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Look at that, I _am_ capable of writing happy stuff! How I've missed writing happy Winchesters :')
> 
> I hope you all enjoy <333

When Dean crept into Sam's room at the ass-crack of dawn, armed with a birthday cake he'd baked himself while hoping and praying to whoever was listening that it would be palatable, he hadn't expected to have his other arm wrenched off at the shoulder and a gun in his face. The cake wobbled a little in his left hand but surprisingly did not fall off, and for that Dean would be grateful later, but right now he was too busy yelling out in surprise and pain and resisting the urge to flail wildly and  _fucking strangle_ the little shit.

“What the fuck, Sam?” he cried, turning on Sam's bedside lamp, setting the cake down and massaging his shoulder, all the while glaring at his brother.

“Sorry,” Sam said, staring at Dean with the straight face he had when he was trying not to laugh. “I thought I was under attack.”

Dean glared some more. “From  _what_ ? Nothing can get in or out of this place if we don't want it to, remember?”

Looking a little contrite, Sam put his gun back under his pillow. “Well, old habits die hard, Dean. Also, it's like ass o'clock in the morning.”

“You _like_ waking up at ass o'clock in the morning,” Dean pointed out, crossing his arms.

“You're pouting,” Sam told him, a ghost of a grin on his face. “And no, I don't like waking up _this_ early.” He glanced at the clock. “Dean... it's 3 in the morning. _3 in the morning_.”

“All right, so maybe it _is_ a little early,” conceded Dean. “Whatever. The thought still counts.”

“The thought can count later on, maybe at a _reasonable time of day_ ,” Sam said, and before Dean could reply he turned his lamp off and laid back down, curling up inside his blanket.

“I love how you just completely ignored that I made you a fucking cake,” Dean said sarcastically to Sam's back.

“No you didn't, I'd have heard the fire alarm go off,” Sam responded, his voice muffled into his pillow.

“Fuck off,” Dean retorted, sitting down hard on Sam's mattress and jostling the entire bed. Sam emerged from his blanket burrito to glare at Dean, and it would have been effective maybe if he didn't look sleepy and his hair wasn't all over the place.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Dean?” he complained. “Let me sleep!”

“I made you _cake_ ,” Dean repeated, and pointed at the innocuous item of pastry sitting meekly on Sam's table. “ _Cake_ , Sam.”

Sam stared at it, surprise written all over his face.

“It's chocolate chip,” Dean said proudly.

Sam was still staring. It was starting to get a little unnerving.

“I made it myself,” Dean said, in case Sam hadn't gotten the message the first few times or so.

Instead of the “oh Dean, you're amazing, I'm gonna love you forever and worship you and never leave you” that Dean had been expecting, Sam just made an odd noise in the back of his throat and ducked back under his blanket, curling up as tight as possible. Nonplussed, Dean reached out and lightly touched Sam's shoulder, frowning. Was Sam sick? 

Sam actually fucking  _yelled_ and lashed out, flailing as his head rose from inside the blanket. “Did it explode yet?”

“Did it _what_ now?” Dean asked, not sure he'd heard right. Just to make sure he reached out and placed his palm on Sam's forehead. “No, you're not sick,” he observed, mainly to himself.

Sam glared at him, and yep, it still looked cute instead of scary. Dean told him as much. Sam glared some more.

“Of course I'm not sick,” he huffed. “These are precautionary measures. For when the cake inevitably goes boom.”

“Why would the cake go boom?” questioned Dean, feeling more and more lost by the moment.

“Because you made it,” Sam said, like it answered anything at all. “Why _wouldn't_ it go boom? So tell me, what did you put in the center? Is it a firework? Something worse?”

“Sam, I didn't make you an exploding cake,” Dean answered, scowling and clutching his heart dramatically. “Why _would_ I do such a thing?”

Sam looked unamused. “I see you've forgotten what you did for my seventeenth,” he deadpanned.

Dean's hand dropped from his chest. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “Right.” Then he schooled his features back into his brightest grin. “But that was  _years_ ago, Sammy boy, and you know me – I never repeat a prank.”

“Just because it was years ago doesn't mean you're not gonna do it again,” Sam pointed out, still looking wary. “Dean, I'm not touching that till I'm _absolutely_ sure that eating it will have no adverse effects on my health.”

“Eating it will have no adverse effects on your health,” Dean promised, rolling his eyes fondly. Literally who used the phrase _adverse effects_ in everyday speech? Fucking Sam Winchester, that's who.

“And it's not gonna explode,” Sam said. He'd somehow found a pencil and was poking at the cake with the eraser end.

“Sam, _stop!”_ Dean said, horrified, knocking the pencil out of his brother's hand. “Jesus, Sam, do you have _any_ idea how long I worked on the icing?!” He smoothed over the gap in the white icing using his fingers, muttering under his breath about unreasonably suspicious little brothers and poor, put upon big brothers, while also crooning apologies to the cake.

“That's so disturbing,” Sam said, staring in disbelief. “And unhygienic.”

“My hands are clean, and you've had worse things go into your mouth than my germs,” Dean retorted, licking his fingers clean and ignoring Sam's grimace. “Anyway, I swear to you it's not gonna explode, Sam. Really, you're hurting my feelings here.”

“Better your feelings than me,” Sam said sardonically.

“Just eat the cake, Sam, you're not gonna die,” Dean burst out, grabbing the cake and brandishing it in Sam's face, making it wobble a bit on its platter.

“Excuse me if over thirty years of tampered birthday cakes have led to me being a bit suspicious,” Sam returned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I swear this one won't explode, melt, give you diarrhea, superglue your mouth shut, make you puke the entire day or have any other _adverse effect_ on your health,” said Dean, sneering.

“You forgot about landing me in the hospital because my lips were blue and I thought I was going to die,” Sam reminded him. Dean instantly brightened.

“Oh yeah, the wonders of food coloring,” he said wistfully, staring nostalgically into the distance. “What year was that?”

“My eighteenth,” Sam said huffily. “I still say that was like 78% of the reason I went to Stanford.”

“Fuck off,” Dean repeated, glaring. “If you're not gonna eat it just say so, okay, I'll go give it to Mrs. Marco in town. She, unlike you, _appreciates_ me, Sam.”

Sam peered warily at Dean, then at the cake that Dean was holding mere inches from his face, and then sighed. “Fine,” he said, giving in. “Let's have the cake, then.”

Delighted, Dean pulled out an angel blade from his jacket and held it out to Sam, who stared down at it in muted disbelief. “Why can't we have a normal knife?” he finally asked.

Dean looked sheepish. “I, uh, they kind of... well, you see, there came a stage in the icing when I–”

“Forget it,” interjected Sam, shaking his head. “I don't want to know.” He took the angel blade from Dean and carefully cut out a small slice, before holding it up to the light and inspecting it carefully.

“Sam,” sighed Dean.

Evidently satisfied, Sam popped the cake in his mouth, before grinning at Dean. “This is really good!” He actually closed his eyes as he chewed, looking like he was already in Heaven.

“Told you so,” Dean said with a smug grin. Sam was so busy savoring it he didn't even notice Dean get off the bed and back off slowly towards the door.

Just in time, though – Dean was nearly at the door when Sam's eyes flew open and he spat the cake into a tissue that he had handy. Immediately Dean turned tail and ran, cackling madly to himself as Sam screamed after him, “IT'S RAISIN, YOU ASSHOLE, YOU KNOW I HATE RAISINS!”

Another one for the books. Dean Winchester did pride himself on being a fine prankster.

* * *

Later on, when Sam had chased him down and forced a slice of cake down his throat as revenge, Dean did apologize. If “see, you're not dead and I didn't lie when I said it wouldn't have adverse effects on your health,  _raisins are good for you_ ” could be construed as a twisted apology of some kind. Sam just huffed and stuffed more cake into Dean's mouth and laughed when he made faces and glared at Sam.

He did get him a proper cake later on, which Sam promptly dissected and examined carefully before eating. The relieved sigh and bright smile Dean got when Sam got down a mouthful without suffering a horrible fate was worth all the raisin cake, though.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love <3
> 
> [tumblr.](http://chesterbennington.co.vu/askpls)
> 
> \--Remy x


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